I was a 6th grader when Tom and the boys first played beach volleyball on the big screen. That really explains so much of my next few years. Of all of the movies I watched in my coming of age years, there were few that felt as dangerous as Top Gun. Kelly McGillis and Meg Ryan were badasses. Give me Iceman…any.freaking.day. Anthony Edwards stole my heart as Goose and made me a loyal Mark Green fan forever. And I tolerated Maverick. (I’m sorry…he has just never been my thing. I’m going to call that discernment at the wise old age of 11.)

I knew it was coming. How could you live in America in the spring of 2022 and not know? Oh, Maverick. So I did what all good moms do, I took the kids. To say that I loved the movie is an understatement. I cried too many times to count. But what I’ve come to realize in the months that have passed is that watching that movie on the big screen, with all the genius throwbacks to the original, took me back to a place that I need more of.

If it has been a minute since you heard this song, stop. Seriously. Listen. And when I say listen, I mean from your motorcycle riding, aviator glasses wearing, permed hair loving soul. As this song was reintroduced to my insides, the excavation had a new cellar to explore. What was this untamed need to risk? To risk in ways that I knew could hurt me? To risk things that I have always been told we’re irresponsible? To have less caution and more questions. My insides needed to risk being wrong for the sake of the adventure.

The world that I have lived in has never invited untamed risk. Especially if said risk could produce a harmful outcome or cause my heart to hurt. Excavation has taught me that risk is the magic. When my heart flutters and my hands get a little shaky, I listen now. I spent many years turning that feeling off in the name of holiness. If you have seen the musical the Book of Mormon, I could literally “Turn it Off.” Along with anything that I decided could lead my thoughts or actions astray. And excavation has brought me to a new world.

Kenny. Damn. Loggins.

I’ve literally pointed my fighter jet toward things that my insides (even as I type these words) have long since covered in caution tape and a flight response. I’ve done it all because I wanted to feel. FEEL. Even if that meant that the feeling I was about to examine was hurt or pain or even heartbreak. And I’ve had them all. I’ve sat with some of the most unwanted discomfort because I made choices to risk this year. I have stretched into new friendships, new experiences and new roles. And in that process I’ve risked too much sometimes. AND THAT IS OK!

What a freeing moment it is to move from a life of intentional avoidance to one of non-judgmental curiosity. Even in the danger zones.

I didn’t know the storyline of Maverick when we went to the theatre. I didn’t know that Goose would live on. I knew that Val was not quite Ice, but I was not prepared for how many of the details that made that risk taking beauty of a silver screen classic come to life would be recreated. It was a reminder of my excavation today. There is more to discover. There are more stories to tell. And even though things feel really dangerous and risky, there is some beach football in the future. No need to cry about the volleyball. It lives on. Thanks, Miles.

With all of the fun that the rediscovery of country has brought to my life, I am not 21. And the past few years have FELT nothing like college. 2022 has sounded much more like a good, rich, hard, wanting, hurting Adele ballad. The tones have felt big. Heavy. Right. But, oh, so hard. This self-love week cannot be fully sung without a big one. One that holds the reflection and truth. Adele, you are the grown-up badass. And you have taught me to be ok with not having it figured out.

“I hope I learn to get over myself. Stop trying to be somebody else. So we can love each other for free. Everybody wants something, you just want me.”

There are many of her songs that could hold this spot. I actually had to choose from 3 and the lyrics to this chorus sealed the deal. That’s the kind of big grief that it takes to grieve a life defining relationship. And that’s the most accurate label for my relationship with the divine. Humans are a completely different song.

This is where I might just surprise one or two of you. Adele is the answer to my forest fire. You remember the girl on fire? She is cool as shit. But she also has a tendency to be a out of control. Her flames are a bit wild when she throws the passion of a fight song on the hurt. This year has gifted me the ability to be Adele and Blue October. Most days its a crap shoot as to which one wants to come out to play, but it’s my choice. The best part of the growth is that the only thing that goes into that decision is what I need. On that day. Because tomorrow will be different. Hell, an hour from now will be different, let’s be honest.

Adele, can I just write a love note to you? OK, thanks…

Thanks for giving me the grown up words that speak truth and don’t back down from the hard. Thanks for not having it together and at the very same time, SO TOGETHER. Thank you for reminding me that you can’t fight fire with fire. Your songs tell me everyday that the only way through some of the hurt is soft and tender. And that’s good. You are still a boss, especially when you cry.

While Adele has been massaging the callous off my heart, my therapist has reminded me about safe circles. And my inner-inner-most circle is so small. Every time I think I have made peace with the changing responsibilities of a centered life, I begin to panic that I have made that circle too small. And then I am reminded. The only person I need in my inner circle is me. The others that are present are there because I trust them. Trust is hard when you have new legs. Ones that have been rebuilt because your joints have deteriorated. Ones that have not held weight. You’ve seen them on a baby animal. A giraffe or deer. They wobble. They don’t know quite how to use the muscles. That’s me and Adele-feels. But I’m over here with knocky knees and very strong reflexes. So it’s probably a good thing that I test market my soft in safe circles. Like other rage-ers. They seem to tolerate me and my need to move from tears to punching in .03 seconds. These undercover softies are my people.

I’m looking at you, LSO…

When I sent the playlist for this project to Lucas, he listened to the entirety of the 29 songs with no context and this was his first comment: “There was one song that I had to skip. I just couldn’t listen to it.” I was sure this was the one. It is the epitome of 90’s country and when I tell you we danced to Shania Twain at our wedding, that is one of the greatest gifts of our very complicated relationship negotiations. But, I was wrong. So, just know there’s more musical fun to come.

The year was 1994. John Michael Montgomery was the hottest thing on the country scene. I can sing way too many of those gems, even still today. Oh, the brain cells that I have dedicated to song lyrics. I’m so sorry art history. You never stood a chance. Instead, I embraced all things JMM and the Grundy County auction. Sold.

A wonderful thing happened to me in the Fall of 1994. For the first time in my life I felt like I found my people. I can remember sitting on the floor with friends that September and I just had a coming home. I was 19. I was loving life, and this song reminds me of it. You see, back in the day, we were creative musical geniuses when it came to selling our Greek organizations. Could you, would you, ain’t you gonna be a KD tonight? Yep. And, I got to sing it. Absolute genius.

If you knew me from the Fall of 1994 – Spring of 1996, you had a window into a really rare sighting. When I look back on my seasons of growth, I have always condemned this season. For so many reasons, I threw the baby out with the bathwater when it came to making peace with the then. And then this song magically appeared to jump out of my speaker this Fall and it made sense.

This song is the fun factor. It’s the perfect example of a time when I didn’t take myself so seriously. It was also the only time in my life prior to 2020 that I was not in church every week. College was the best. And it wasn’t just the freedom and tomfoolery. It was an opportunity to think for myself. It was knowing that I messed up and not hating myself for it. It was deeply connecting with people about the things that mattered and the things that didn’t matter at all. Most people go to college to get an education. My education was in independence and it was so important.

If you know the story of the following 25 years…the scaffolding of my life was religion. It gave me the tools that I needed to keep the project of my life moving. Especially when that pesky humanity got in the way. But on this side of the construction zone, I have embraced the warmth of a non-judgmental scavenger hunt for the moments not celebrated. And college was one of those. Because, lets be honest about all the changes in me and the world – being a Baylor grad is not always popular. Especially in my heart. But my memories of some of the greatest moments of really saying “what if” came in the wonder and joy of that season. I laughed. And did a lot of other things. But, I love those memories. This year, I have drawn on the wisdom of that season that I have often ignored in adulthood.

I have some great ideas about returning to my care-free self. And some of my best dreaming has already produced more in body ink and “HELL YES” moments than my 1996 self would have known what to do with. I kinda thrive on surprising her these days. So, I’m just gonna be over here dreaming about what it takes to be a rhinestone Romeo, and I’m totally here for it. Let me know, JMM.

Relationships are hard.

If you have not made peace with the truth of that statement, I’m sorry about the life events or intentional denials in your future. Even in healthy and whole, when you involve humans, things grow exponentially harder. There is nothing that can complicate all of the things about humanity more than a self-imposed need to be responsible for another’s…everything. Look. I’ve been working on co-dependency in therapy for more than 2 decades. I’ve made some good strides. But with the big bad WHY change of my motivation, I’ve had to choose to love. And that’s pointed out some really bad habits. When I’m honest, it’s the truth of many relationships that are no longer. As a word of confession and humility:

1. I’m slow.

2. It takes great pain for me to face reality.

3. I’m so bad at this. Still. Like today.

I’m not even going down all the roads on this, but what I hope that this post and this song…no, this moment…can transcend is whatever the now of us – you (reader) and me – if we have ever shared music, I miss you. If a song defines a season of our lives together, you are held in holy space in my life. If when I flip on the radio I can be transported to a time and place and see your face, I want you to know that I smile.

Sharing music is sacred. There is a vulnerability in the story you are sharing that cannot always be put in spoken words. So when that happens, you stick. A piece of my story is defined in that melody, and so many of these moments are imprinted in the healing that has come about in 2022. All the while, the music of the memories has been the soundtrack.

The songs that I have not heard in 30 years that are now remixed.

The ones that I wanted to feel from the first moment I heard them, but I knew I wasn’t “supposed” to.

The rock song that I tried to turn into a dramatic Jesus moment on youth Sunday and it flopped. But I just smile when I hear it.

The one that takes me into the heart of the hurt. All the way.

What Are You Listening To?

Walking into the truth of a song alongside someone redefines our human trust. Try it. Just close your eyes and let a song take you there. I’ve done that so much this year. And in the process, I have learned to let those connections to even the most complicated of treasured musical moments float right to the surface. While I smile.

I miss the top hits of days gone by. But I also know which songs need to stay off the comeback pile. And it’s so good to have the breadth to invite all of the mess, of every song, into my big reconstructed life. I’m committed to intention, not empty emoting. With each memory, I’m trying to make sense of the depth of old pain and dream lost dreams again. Songs are an invitation to, even if for just 3.5 minutes, sit with all of my truth.

And the #1 thing that has come from me learning to let go of the old rules is that I get to love you more. You. The best friend from junior high or the teenager that made me crazy or even the ones that broke my heart. More love. That’s what a melody gives me.

With each memory.

And gut check.

Week 1: Self-love

My historical references to Advent have a theme word woven into the week’s focus. This week is all about self-love and there is no better place to start than “Brave.” It is rare that I go 2-3 days without this song. It is an anthem – ANTHEM – for the days that I feel not enough.

It’s a pep talk and a hug.

It’s a kick in the ass and a handkerchief for my tears.

And I’ve needed all of it this year. The bravest thing I have ever done is intellectually decide that it was acceptable for me to love myself. Completely. Because if I did that, I knew I pulled the last cord. The final thread that held the scraps of my faith depended on this one belief staying together. And then I pulled it.

I have discovered some important things since I stepped out of my known faith. The first, and perhaps the biggest asterisk on this series, is that most people don’t do faith (especially Christianity) like I did. I BELIEVED IT. With all of my believer. I gave my heart, my career, my soul, my family, my money, my house, my mind, even my body for the cause of Christ. I gave of myself in ways that I genuinely thought were my sacrificial gifts and I now know differently. Some go to church for preaching or music. I was the church because I believed that it was my job by profession of faith to make sure that everyone around me KNEW Jesus. So they would live eternally. And the hardest thing for someone who KNOWS and BELIEVES on such a painfully deep level to do – ever – is question. Because we can’t just question a few things. And all that string pulling landed me in the pit of hardest truth: I couldn’t love myself because I couldn’t believe that I was good. How could I be? Because of all the sin…

It’s at this time that I need to say something important. This series is my experience. It’s not something I need to be saved from. It’s not something I even fully understand. And while I’m totally ok with that, I am not looking for answers outside of myself today. I look forward to listening for more of my own truth. I say these words because had I read this 10 years ago, I would already be penning the DM or comment to let that friend know that they were still included. I promise…I’m good. Better than I’ve been in a while. And the best news of all is that I’m starting to love myself. Me. For no other reason than I like myself. And that’s enough.

So back to “Brave.” There is a line in the bigness of the song that leads my self-love charge.

SHOW ME…HOW BIG YOUR BRAVE IS

Those are my marching orders.

And in 2022, Sara has reminded me regularly that I can. I will. And on the other side of this, there are some crazy beautiful brave rewards. The most important one being that I can undo every belief that I held and still be a whole human. That’s freaking brave.

For more than 20 years, Dad gave perfume to the women in our family for Christmas. I have almost every bottle he ever gave me. For all of these years I have sporadically worn my perfume on special occasions. In 2022, I threw that thought out with a few other lies I have internalized. What makes a day special? What if Tuesday the 8th is as special as the 25th? Because, if I’m honest, perfume is a perfect example of the things that I save. And waste. And manage. And judge the worth of.

I have changed. I am so different from the writer that has tried in past years to excitedly enter into the worldly holiday experience through the lens of Advent. I spent most of my winter energy guiding the waiting, for me and for others. This year has brought to my life a more clarified awareness of my need for rhythms. I long for intentional seasons of internal work and celebration. I need to mark beginnings and endings. I need my space for all of it. I need ritual more than certainty today. I have spent much of this year thinking that my lack of certainty equated to a loss of voice. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. That’s not the norm for me…

I’ve been on an exploratory journey of sorts. I have been making lists of the things that once held central positions in my heart and no longer hold weight. I’ve explored relationships, sexuality, eternity, prayer, exercise, nature, animals, religion and even food. I’ve made peace with some and stirred up hornets’ nests in others. I’ve found understanding and confusion, clarity and clouds, rain and so much sunshine. I’ve learned to play and laugh. I’ve seen new places. I’ve lived. In that work, I’ve seen the way my firmly held thinking (I am a good Enneagram 8, after all) destroyed my joy.

In a parallel universe to my inability to use my words, I have drawn deeply into the things that make my soul come alive. Music is my comfort. Music is my discomfort. And in a recent conversation with a friend, I was confronted with these words: “The songs you love all sound religious.”

First of all, that pissed me off. P!nk is not religious! I like songs about whiskey and dancing. These are not religious. Like so many other things, it was a language barrier that finally clicked with me. And in a very framing moment of OHHHH, it came together. I love music because I was conditioned to believe that the draw of the right lyrics and a perfectly timed acoustic guitar could conjure a soul moment. My heart longs for the songs you have to wait for. The ones that tell a story that ends in a big bridge. And my friend was right. And I cried. Again. Music is my religion of choice. I worship at the feet of genius artists that have helped me come alive in new ways this year.

Rather than grieving what I don’t have in certainty today, my year has led me to see what a good remix sounds like. In the creative quest to add more color to my black and white world, I’m taking back a little of the play and sharing my 2022 advent. This is a musical journey of growth and pain. It’s the road that has set the stage for the journey of 2023. With each day in the season, a song a day for all 28 days. (Getting this list down to 29 songs was no small task. See, I couldn’t do it in 28…) Along with each carefully curated song, a lesson learned in one of the 4 week long themes:

Self-love

Excavation

Quiet

Curiosity

Just in case I wasn’t clear, this advent journey is not about the preparation for the coming of Jesus. This advent is about the rhythm of return to self. A wonderful season of taking something that lost its meaning and allowing old words to mean new things.

I’ve learned so much about the nervous system this year. They get stuck. Did you know that? They get trapped and buried by fear and panic. I’ve also tuned in enough to know that the very same “feeling” that I have had falling on my face at an altar in worship happens when I love myself. I “feel” that, too. In such profound ways that I have learned to trust that feeling as the safest home.

In the most generous way I know how to say it, welcome to my homecoming ritual. Melody. Dance. And. So. Much. Bass. My body loves music. My heart feels lyrics. And the ability to not judge one thought and just feel the inner draw is one of the greatest gifts in this practice. So rather than wait for for the day that I felt together enough to write with perfection or special enough to wear the perfume, I choose today. I’m letting that big smell fill the room. Even if not everyone likes it. Or if some think it’s too much. My words and my perfume will be used out of passion and not perfection. And I hope these daily ramblings will inspire your own advent-like wake up calls.

As I say to myself almost daily,

Welcome Home